Favors
by corellian-smuggler
Summary: Leia asks a favor of Han when she falls sick on Hoth.


_This little whim fic is for the wonderful Zyra, who is sick, and for Erin Darroch and Mermaid 32, who are also under the weather._

There had been a time when "visitors" on the _Falcon_ had been limited to the Imps trying to board her; before that faithful day he'd been hired by Ben Kenobi, Han had known who was on his ship at all times. Back then any stowaways or unexpected _guests_ would've promptly found themselves with a blaster pointed between their eyes—if they'd even managed to get aboard at all. Han and Chewie had been impeccably vigilant, and the Falcon's security protocols were one of the few features of the freighter that was never on the fritz. Even more effective than their upgraded sensor systems and passcode-protected points of entry were their reputations. Han figured most beings in the circles they ran in knew they'd have to be damn fools to try to sneak onto the _Millennium Falcon_.

That was before, though. Nowadays Han felt like his own damn ship had become some kind of Rebel bed and breakfast. The first time he'd stumbled into the galley at 0500 to find Luke Skywalker frying eggs, he'd stared at the kid in dumbfounded disbelief as the young pilot had greeted him with a cheerful, _"Morning, Han! Do you want scrambled or sunny side up?"_

That had been just the beginning. Since then, he'd found all manner of intruders bumming around his ship at all hours of the day and night. Astromech droids rolling past while he did repairs. Rogue Squadron sitting at his holochess table. He swore if Goldenrod showed up in his circuitry bay unannounced one more time he'd start detaching limbs. For the most part Han had begrudgingly gotten used to this constant stream of personnel traipsing through his main hold—the freeloaders seemed to interpret his exasperation as fondness—but there was one particular visitor who still seemed able to catch him off guard.

That was why, much to his annoyance, Han nearly jumped out of his skin when he ambled towards his cabin after an evac drill and rounded the corner to find a small regal burglar rummaging through his medkit.

"Your Worship!" he yelped, startled. "They teach you how to sneak around like this in princess training?"

"I was a spy in the Imperial Senate," Leia replied without looking up from the box of supplies. "So... yes."

Han's smart retort died on his lips when he realized how messed up her voice was—she sounded like she'd swallowed a Nubian warble toad, and upon closer inspection he realized that her skin was pale and clammy, her braids were dull and bedraggled, and her whole body was shaking as she dug methodically through his personal store of medical supplies.

Han frowned and pointed a finger at her.

"You said you weren't sick," he accused, and Leia finally turned away from her attempted robbery to glare at him.

"I'm not!" she rasped. Han couldn't even bring himself to smirk when her protest was undermined by a full-body shiver that made her teeth chatter.

To the contrary, Han suddenly felt an unpleasant and aggressive knot in his stomach. They'd already had this fight—the day before, they'd had it out in the mess hall when he'd caught her staring blankly into her tea, her cheeks flushed, dark circles under her eyes, looking unwell. As he'd watched she'd slid the styroplast cup closer to herself and hunched over it, giving an almost imperceptible little shudder, and abruptly he'd realized she was trying to warm herself over the steam. Without thinking he'd come up behind her and laid his hand over the back of her neck—her soft skin had been hotter than the surface of Tatooine.

"_Kriff, Highness, you're burning' up."_

_He'd dropped down into the seat next to her. The way she'd looked up from her cup like a cornered lothcat had given him pause, but he'd realized she looked even worse up close. The color of her skin was stark white even compared to the white of her snowsuit, and her face had betrayed her to both misery and exhaustion. He'd experienced an alien and unwelcome impulse—or, well, maybe not so alien. Felt it before—on missions with Leia, on his ship with Leia, in the command center with Leia... He dared not name the traitorous feeling, the one that roosted inside his ribcage and throbbed in agitated bursts, but this time it manifested in a bizarre worry that maybe he should take off his own big coat and bundle it around her to alleviate her shivers..._

"_Excuse me?"_

_Han had blinked back to reality._

"_No really," he'd frowned. "You'd better head to the medcenter. Looks like you got that Mid Rim Strep Antilles was moaning about—"_

_To his consternation Leia's expression had only become even more defensive. He'd watched warily as she'd sat straighter in her chair._

"_I don't have Mid Rim Strep—" she'd started in the same haughty voice she affected she wanted to pretend she was an aloof and composed member of High Command rather than the impish little con artist who'd just the week before hustled him out of 100 credits playing cards. Usually the imperious tone got a rise out of him immediately—in fact sometimes Han suspected she did it on purpose—but Han hadn't taken the bait._

"_Well, you got something, Your Worship." He'd looked her over again; noting with increasing concern the way she was trembling. "And you look like hell, too."_

"_Well, thank you for sharing your unsolicited and unwelcome opinions regarding my health and appearance, but I'm not sick and I'd appreciate it if—"_

"_Your throat hurt?"_

"_No—"_

"_Right, that's why you got a pile of about fifty packets of honey sitting in front of you—" he'd patted the sad little pile of empty honey pods, smirking a bit as he'd imagined Leia stalwartly dumping them all into her tea the way she would stubbornly and methodically send reinforcements into a battle._

_Unfortunately Leia had not shared in his fond amusement—in fact, to his dismay, she'd seemed genuinely annoyed with him._

"_I hardly see how it's any of your business what I put in my tea, Han," she'd snapped._

_Finally, he hadn't been able to keep from reacting to her attitude._

"_Your throat hurts, you got a fever, Mid Rim Strep is going around," he'd huffed back, making a show of counting off each fact on his fingers. "Gee, wonder what could possibly be wrong with you and your little royal tonsils—"_

_Leia's eyes had narrowed._

"_Just because you think I have a fever doesn't mean—"_

"_Sweetheart," he'd pointed a finger at her, "I practically got a third degree burn just touching you—"_

"_I'm not your sweetheart and I don't recall inviting you to put your hands on me, either," she'd hissed. _

_At this Han had actually felt his jaw drop._

"_Put my hands—?" he'd repeated incredulously. Now he had been the one who was getting pissed. As if they weren't friends, as if they hadn't shared way more casual physical touch than that, as if he'd been some creep who'd copped a feel instead of a concerned confidant who was checking her temperature. Han had grit his teeth. "You're proving my point for me, Your Highness, if you think that was 'putting my hands'—"_

"_You literally did put your hand on—"_

"_You're obviously as delirious as you are stubborn—"_

"_Stubborn!" she'd demanded. Han had sensed that they were veering away from petty argument and cruising right into a real fight, but her staunch refusal to acknowledge that she was unwell and her obvious intention to keep suffering at her own expense was grating on him for reasons he didn't want to consider._

"_You're sicker'n a sun-dried Hutt!"_

"_I really don't have the time to have this conversation with you, Captain." Han had echoed 'Captain' in disgust. "I'm very busy today—" she'd said with icy social grace, polite words saturated with audible ire. She'd pushed back her chair and started gathering her things—Han had watched in disbelief as she'd started snatching up the remaining pods of honey, like it wasn't for her sore throat, like the infuriating woman didn't clearly have Mid Rim Strep. Han had wanted to leap to his feet and point, to grab up the honey and hold the incriminating evidence before her clammy face._

"_Busy doing what?" he'd thrown his hands up. "Shivering over your tea?"_

"_In case it somehow evaded your laudable and infallible observational skills, we're on a base made of ICE, hotshot—"_

"_And yet you're sweating like a Wookiee in a barber shop!" he'd cried. _

_For a single moment Leia had faltered, and he'd wondered with a kind of guilty pang if maybe she hadn't noticed that she was covered in a sickly sheen, that her usually silky hair had looked damp at her temples._

"_Face the music, Princess." he'd said with less animosity. "You're sick."_

_Han had waited for her to concede, explain that she just didn't have time to be unwell, uneasily promise to maybe head to the medcenter after her rotation..._

_Instead she'd turned up her chin, and when she'd spoken she'd sounded even more angry than before, and now Han had been just confused, because really he'd known she liked to push herself and that she hated showing weakness, but it had seemed like an incredible overreaction, to get so pissed just because she was sick and he was calling her on it—and why the hell wouldn't she just go to the medcenter so she could get back to work?_

"_Even if I am, it's really not your business, Han!"_

"_It ain't the end of the world if you miss one damn shift—" he'd barked in frustration._

"_Han! Shut up!"_

_Han had stared—not because of what she'd said but because it was almost unheard of for Leia to lose her composure to such an extent._

"_No!" he'd growled at last. "Leia, you're being kriffing ridiculous! You're not a droid, you're kriffing sick! Would you just listen to me and go to the damn medcenter—"_

_To Han's astonishment she'd suddenly sprung to her full height and stomped her booted foot._

"_Oh!" she'd huffed, big brown eyes wide. "You condescending, self-important engine-head! Just because I won't cede to your EXPERT MEDICAL OPINION I'm ridiculous, is that it? Or maybe it's because you surely know my body and my physical limitations better than I do? Or, I know—it must be that you're so blinded by your arrogant, planet-sized male ego that you've forgotten that I'm the one who issued the goddess-damned health and safety memo on Mid Rim Strep in the first place—which I'm sure you didn't even READ because why would you take an interest in anything around here besides your own paycheck—so I think I'm SLIGHTLY more informed than you are regarding its symptoms and transmission—OR MAYBE you're such a typical, entitled, domineering Corellian male that you don't understand that you have no say over my health, no right to pass judgment on my decisions therein, no claim over me whatsoever and no business telling me what to do!"_

_Han had only been able to gape at her while she'd slammed the styroplast lid back on her cup of densely honeyed tea and turned to go._

"_Why don't you go earn some more of your precious money and go find something to smuggle?"_

_In disbelief he'd shouted after her retreating form, heedless of all the rebels who'd paused in their lunchtime conversations to stare:_

"_Yeah, I'll find something to smuggle—I'LL SMUGGLE SOME MORE ANTIBIOTICS TO TREAT YOUR STREP THROAT, PRINCESS!"_

The memory of their argument pissed Han off all over again—it seemed like nothing had the power to piss him off like she could—and the fact that he was catching her red-handed rifling through his medkit while he was off his ship, clearly sick, clearly knowing it, clearly attempting to take some meds without his notice... it didn't matter that he'd told her on countless occasions to help herself to any of the _Falcon_'s provisions—it wasn't about the medicine! It was about the fact that she owed him a damn apology, because she was sick and he'd been right and he—

—he was just about to point it out to her when she shivered again and looked down hopelessly at the meager supply in the medkit.

Han's anger withered and died at once.

"Uh, if you're looking for the scanner it's in that compartment," he said gruffly, nodding at one of the drawers built into the medbunk. Leia seemed to bite her lip and then reached for the drawer.

"Here, uh, 's temperamental," Han muttered, holding out his hand. Wordlessly Leia passed him the Falcon's ancient mediscanner, apparently willing to take his word that part of his ship was faulty and that he was better suited to getting it to cooperate than she was.

Han hesitated.

"You wanna...?"

He watched as she climbed up onto the medbunk and sat expectantly, looking gloomy and irritated. Han wondered if it was because she knew she was sick, because she knew he knew he'd been right, or because he'd foiled her little mission to pilfer his stuff before he came back.

With her tacit consent Han powered up the mediscanner and waved the wand slowly over her head and torso. After a few seconds it beeped and the findings were displayed on the screen.

"Don't say it," Leia said hoarsely. "I obviously already know what it says."

Grimly Han nodded and set the scanner aside.

"I can give you something for the fever," he offered. "But I don't have any antibiotics—you'll need to go to the medcenter for that."

"I can't go to the medcenter," Leia whispered.

Han stopped in the process of grabbing her fever meds and looked up at her. She was shivering violently now and looked about ready to fall over, she was so ill, but her expression was coherent and painted with conflict and frustration.

Han thought about their fight and her insinuations that he'd been presumptuously butting into her health, but he figured she wouldn't have said it if he wasn't allowed to ask so he carefully set the pills for her fever beside her and leaned with his forearm propped along the bulkhead.

"Why not?"

"The antibiotic is administered via a hyposhot."

That was all she said, so Han didn't know how he knew. By all means he shouldn't have had a clue, but he was certain the second the words left her lips what they meant. Maybe it was the haunted shadow that had suddenly fallen over her face, like he could suddenly see Alderaan in one of her eyes and the Death Star in the other. Maybe it was because sometimes, when he heard her crying out from nightmares, he couldn't help but consider all the things he knew from firsthand experience that the Empire did to prisoners of war. He wondered if Leia knew that those moments filled him with such fury he'd almost enlisted a few times on the spot. Maybe that was wrong—maybe thinking about Leia's suffering shouldn't have been more effective in cementing his hatred for the Empire than genocide and slavery and all the other fucked up shit he knew the Imps did, but Han had hardened himself to that kind of suffering long ago. He'd had to, to survive.

He wouldn't admit it to her but deep down he knew the truth—that Leia had somehow eroded that old callous casing over his heart, had left parts of the beating flesh raw and vulnerable, and he felt that more and more of this protective husk was stripped each day. With each piece that she plied off him he felt more and more horror over the atrocities happening throughout the galaxy, more and more guilt over refusing to enlist. But worse than that was that there was some kind of wound in him that hadn't been present before—like a bruise, and the bruise was Leia. And maybe thinking of galactic injustice moved his heart more now without its shell but _harm to Leia_ was like a knife jabbed straight into that bruise—the bruise that ached for her always and which he was beginning to suspect only she could soothe was like a fire in his chest on those nights when he'd hear her scream out from the bunkroom; was like a fist clenched tight around his heart when he saw her cry.

Suddenly Han thought back on their argument from the mess hall in a new light, wondered if she'd been agonizing over the hyposhot and antibiotics all day—realizing she'd known full well she was sick and realizing she'd probably been remembering whatever the hell they'd done to her when they'd injected her with whatever the hell they had. Where before he'd thought he'd been looking out for her he abruptly feared he'd been adding to her torment, and the thought filled him with horrified dread.

Lamely he said "oh," because he couldn't bring himself to say much else.

To his astonishment Leia pulled her legs up and lay down on the medbunk, apparently too sick to stay upright. Her gaze was piercing and glassy as she looked up at him.

"Worship," he murmured. "Mid Rim Strep..."

"I know I need the antibiotic," Leia croaked. He suddenly caught sight of the expression on her face.

_Her plan face. _

"What do you need me to do?" he asked at once.

To his surprise though, Leia appeared uncharacteristically reticent to give orders.

"I need the hyposhot," she murmured. "I can't bear—not while I'm awake. If you go to the medcenter and get the hypo, you can wait until I fall asleep, and you can inject me, and I won't know the difference..."

Han jerked back like he'd been shocked.

"You want me to drug you while you're unconscious?!" he demanded, his skin suddenly crawling.

Leia glowered at him while she shivered, and with a mortified jolt Han remembered the blanket he kept in the locker above the bunk. Frantically he grabbed for it to cover her up.

"You won't be drugging me," Leia protested. "You'll be administering medicine I need with my consent."

"You want me to do something to you... while you're asleep... that would traumatize you..."

"It won't traumatize me because I'll be sleeping," Leia pressed, and Han was stunned to realize she was begging. Her shivering was only getting worse, and he recalled with another sick feeling how high her temperature had been. He couldn't imagine how her throat must've felt, with how hoarse she was.

"Leia... I don't know about this," Han muttered uncomfortably.

"I trust you," she rasped, and that Leia-bruise in his chest twinged.

"How'm I supposed to get a hypo? They don't typically pass those out upon request..."

Leia shivered more violently still, her voice practically inaudible as she responded.

"You're the one who said you would smuggle me antibiotics."

Han's eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

"You want me to steal supplies from the Rebel Alliance?"

"It's not stealing," Leia argued. "I'm enlisted and entitled to the medicine—they'd give me the hypo if I went down there and got examined anyway."

Han opened his mouth to reply when she implored him, "If you get caught I'll take the fall. I'll say I ordered you to do it."

"Princess, why don't you just go down there and ask the doc to give you the shot when you're asleep?"

A look passed between them, then. Leia said nothing but as before, Han understood. He sensed that she wasn't sure what else in the medcenter might trigger her PTSD, sensed that just going down there for her was like _**her**_ protective armor would be stripped away, and with this knowledge was the profound realization of exactly what she wasn't saying. She'd told him she'd trusted him but she'd meant she'd trust _**only**_ him—and the realization that she was conceding this, that she trusted him alone in her moment of vulnerability—herself as raw as she'd been making him...

"Go get in my bunk," he said gruffly. "It's warmer. Try... try to sleep."

They shared one more heavy look before Han turned and strode from the ship.

xxx

When Han returned a half hour later, he found Leia curled into his bed, buried under his blanket, the medbunk blanket, and the blanket that usually covered the spare bunk she slept on. Her face was burrowed into his pillow, and the sight set Han's heart-bruise to throbbing in a way it never had before—like someone was just pressing on it, long and hard, and it hurt but it was sweet, and he almost didn't want it to stop—

Han wanted to wake her but he remembered what she'd said about _putting his hands on her_ and so instead he just quietly said her name.

"Leia—Hey, Worshipfulness. Wake up—got your meds."

He watched with fascination the way her face scrunched up before she lifted her head and opened her eyes. Her crown of braids was skewed to one side, and a crease from his pillowcase was red on her cheek.

Inside him a word bloomed that he knew to be the truth, a word he had never felt before about anyone.

Leia blinked at him in confusion.

"You did it?" she asked groggily.

"Got it right here," he said in a very quiet voice that made him feel inexplicably embarrassed.

Leia's brow knit in confusion.

"You were supposed to give me the hypo while I was _asleep_—"

He could see her growing anxiety and silently he pulled a bottle from his pocket and placed it before her on the bed. Leia stared at it, apparently struggling to make sense of what she was seeing through her haze of illness and sleep.

"Turns out before the last supply run that brought in all the hypos, our last shipment of antibiotics was capsules. I remembered because I smuggled 'em. Asked around and wouldn't you know, there were still a couple units leftover."

With a grin he rotated the bottle in her palm so that the label was showing: ZYRACILLIN - HUMAN

For the first time in his memory, Leia appeared speechless.

"So technically I did smuggle your antibiotics for you," he smirked. "14 months ago."

Han watched in growing horror as suddenly Leia's eyes filled with tears and she pressed a pale hand over her face.

"Wha—?"

"Thank you," she whispered, and she drew away her hand to show that she was composed again. She looked up at him tremulously, her whole face pink. "Han, I—"

Han simply passed her a bottle of water with which to take the meds. He didn't want her to thank him for not giving her an injection in her sleep—he didn't really want to think over the implications of the whole situation.

"Go back to sleep, Sweetheart," he urged. "I'll see if we've got the ingredients for soup."

Leia reached for his arm as he made to stand.

"Han, wait—what I said to you, in the mess hall... I didn't mean it..."

Uncomfortable suddenly, to see her so contrite, Han shrugged.

"Nah," he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "I know you meant some of it... don't blame you though—figure I am a—'domineering Corellian engine-head' or—"

But Leia didn't smile or tease him back, didn't smirk and gently goad, _don't forget arrogant and entitled_. Instead she held the bottle of antibiotic close to her chest, like it was something much more meaningful and precious than sore throat meds, and looked at him the same way she had before, when she'd said she'd trust him to give her the hypo.

"No," she said softly. "You're definitely not that."

Han blinked at her in silence, unsure what to say.

"Thank you," she whispered.

His Leia-bruise suddenly sung, as though she'd whispered the words with her lips gentle and caring over the aching spot.

Han swallowed, stricken.

"Anytime, Princess."

He turned back at the hatch.

"I'll uh, be back in a bit with some micken noodle."

xxx

Carlist Rieekan stood in his quarters, contemplative. What had begun as an ordinary day had quickly and unexpectedly become noteworthy.

When his comm had buzzed a short while before and he'd seen the communication from Captain Solo, he'd been intrigued to say the least.

_General—Need to cash in that favor._

He'd met Solo in his office. He had never forgotten their bargain.

Soon after the Battle of Yavin, the young Corellian had approached Carlist one night after hours in the command center and had slapped a credit chip down on the console between them. He'd announced, without pretense, that he was returning the reward money he'd collected for rescuing Princess Leia from the Death Star. Carlist had been surprised, but had not argued. He'd simply asked if the Captain of the Millennium Falcon had been sure of his decision—did he truly want nothing from the Rebel Alliance in return for his bravery?

That night Solo had hesitated, and then simply said—"how 'bout you just owe me one?"

After so many months, Carlist had begun to wonder if the favor Solo had requested would ever be mentioned again, but he knew the young pilot well enough to know that Solo was shrewd, and was likely saving his one chance for something he'd really need. That was why Rieekan had been so baffled when Solo's request had been so benign—_Did the medcenter have any antibiotic capsules left, instead of shots, and could Han have some?_

Perplexed but true to his word, Rieekan had led Captain Solo to the medcenter, used his access code to enter the supply room, and had hastily pulled up the drug on the inventory schematic.

"You're in luck, Solo. Few bottles left. You're certain that this is what you want to spend your favor on?"

"This treats Mid Rim Strep?"

"It does."

"Then yes."

Carlist had nodded and held out the bottle of capsules. But, as Han had pocketed it and turned for the door, Rieekan had spoken.

"You don't look sick, Solo."

He'd watched the younger man look over his shoulder.

"Someone is," he'd shrugged, and made again to leave.

Rieekan had watched him reach the door.

"I dismissed Princess Leia from her post today," Carlist had said offhandedly. As he had expected, he watched Solo freeze, but the man did not turn. Carlist continued, "She was very clearly quite ill—with symptoms of Mid Rim Strep Throat. I ordered her to go straight to medical. It is to my understanding that she never turned up."

Still Solo didn't move, and Rieekan nodded to himself.

"Take that to Leia," Rieekan ordered. "And Solo, I won't accept this as your favor."

Han had finally turned and met Carlist's eyes.

"Yes, sir," he'd agreed.

Standing after in his quarters, fingering his wedding ring and thinking of the life he had lost in the ashes of Alderaan, Rieekan smiled.

He wondered if Han Solo knew yet that he was in love with the very Princess he'd rescued on that fateful day all those months ago.


End file.
